The Dilemma
by seeyouontheice
Summary: jonny is faced with a choice.


"I can't do this."

"Yes. You can."

He shook his head adamantly. "No. _I _can't."

"Trust me. I know you can do this."

"How? How do you know? How can you say that? How can you know?"

"Because of this," she whispered taking his hand and placing it on her, as yet still flat, stomach. His eyes softened slightly as he felt the skin beneath her dress, and he let his mind wonder to the miracle that had gifted them. "You can do this," she repeated forcefully.

He stepped closer to her, placing his other hand alongside his first, and bit his lip as he wrestled with his dilemma. For it was his dilemma, not hers. However much she wished he didn't have to face the choice that he was now faced with, she knew that he could not, would not, be swayed by her or anyone as to what the right thing to do was. All she could do was encourage him to believe that he _was_ capable of making the decision.

"What if it was you? What would you do?"

"Don't ask me that, please. Don't ask me that."

"But I am."

She let her head fall against his chest, "It's your choice … not mine. I'll support you either way – I'm carrying your child, what else would I do? – but it has to be _your_ choice."

He let out a sigh and pressed his face into her hair. When was the last time they'd stood like this? Had they ever? But it was comforting to know that he wasn't alone and that, regardless of what he chose, she'd not think any differently of him; she'd not turn away from him nor would she treat him any differently once he'd chosen. It made him wonder … why?

Why had she not shied away from him upon hearing the rumours? Why had she not denied him the involvement of their shared secret once she'd realised what his family was really like. Why had she not questioned _him_ in regards to his own temperament? Why did she still believe he was the perfect father material?

Perhaps it was because she had actually – and still did – mean it. Those three words that she had let slip from her lips all those months ago; had she _actually_ meant them? Maybe that was why she was being so blind to his faults, to his … his defects. The blood that flowed through his father flowed through him – and now flowed within the splodge that was growing and maturing inside the woman he held in his arms. Surely, surely she couldn't still love him … not after what the snatched whisper of the gossip wheel would've told her. Not, not after all that?

Something told him that she'd extended the same courtesy as to ignore the rumours as he had done for her. That she's refused to believe to the twisted tales because she wanted the truth, not the exaggerated lies. He had waited until she felt ready – able – to tell him herself, and had been rewarded with the raw honest truth; she'd hidden nothing from him. It had touched him to know that he was the first person she'd felt she could trust enough to know _everything_ about her and everything that had happened to her.

_"I will listen, y' know I will."_

_She smiled painfully before her face dropped into hesitance and worry, "Don't think any differently of me, will you?"_

_"If I do, it's only because I'll understand you that wee bit better."_

_She stared at the floor and then asked him not to speak, to wait until she'd finished otherwise she'd find an excuse to stop. He swore that he wouldn't and she hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring at a spot above his left shoulder. After a long moment, she began in a voice that was throbbing with pain and hurt and loss and suffering and all other the other emotions that were linked. _

It was only now that he realised the reason she'd sat there with her arms wrapped tightly round her knees; to hold herself together and protect herself from the past – the memories – that continued to haunt her and taunt her. Now it was his turn. She'd trusted him with the past she was ashamed of and now it was time for him to return the favour. While their situations – their pasts – were in no way the same, they were similar. Similar in the sense that they'd both felt the need to hide it, deny it, and burry it behind them.

"Tell me," she whispered. "If you tell me, you might find your answer."

Pushing her away from him gently, he stepped back and began to pace the small windowless room. In his agitated state, he took in the details of the room and committed them to memory – years down the line, he freaked people out slightly at his ability to remember it so clearly. As if he'd been in the room only moments before.

The door; painted a standard issue sickly turquoise green that reflected the light from the industrial 'energy efficient' lights. The slim window, no bigger than the width of his fist, had the thin lines dividing it into neat squares running through the glass and a sticker above the matt grey handle told him to 'keep closed in case of fire'. Not that the wood would be much of a hindrance to the flames should there be any.

The walls of the room were washed with that off-white yellow, the colour of unkempt teeth. A notice board stretched across the middle third of one of the walls – the one perpendicular to the single door – and was littered with old posters, leaflets and sheets of healthcare info no one really read. Chairs lined the other three walls. Un-matching and with varying degrees of comfortableness they showed signs of wear and neglect, as if they were at the bottom of the list of things that needed attending to. A bin, full of empty paper cups sat hidden in the corner.

The carpet was made from those squares of industrialised material that was hard-wearing and good for places like schools, offices and – apparently – windowless rooms. At some point a square or two had gone missing and so the bits of carpet slipped and showed the hardboard floor it was covering. The ceiling above them was covered with the same sized squares of that foam-like material that offices, schools and other such buildings used because it was cheap. About four or five of those flashy energy efficient, 'turns-on-when-you-enter-the-room' lights had been fitted and bathed the room in the unyielding harsh light of industrialism. In conclusion, the whole room looked as if it could do with livening up and it did little to help his mood and his situation.

His gaze fell onto her. She stood leaning against the arm of a particularly repulsive armchair with her hands resting in her lap, on against her stomach as if she was making sure their secret was still hidden. Her eyes – so perfect and so green – were trained on him and the only thing he read in them was concern for him. And love. Her red hair hung freely around her face and her shoulders, softening her features in its natural wavy state while her dress, a plain navy blue number that made her hair stand out all the more, was simple yet eloquent – like her in many ways. Her legs were bare since the dress fell just short of her knees and for once she had opted against heels. All she had with her was her hand bag, abandoned on the chair just inside the door.

He had not asked her to come.

And he hadn't expected her to fight for her right to accompany him. She'd been there when the call had come in – he'd been busy assisting in theatre – and had watched as he'd been given the news about his mother. They'd fought almost immediately about whether or not she was coming until he reached the point that, in this, she _wasn't_ backing down. Giving her this victory because he knew that, deep down he wanted her with him he'd grudgingly agreed that she could come. In all fairness the journey had been ten times easier with her. He knew that, had he gone alone, he'd have turned back before he'd even reached the motorway.

He'd tossed and turned all night, wondering what to do. Should he see her or should he not? It was a wonder she had gotten any sleep with him fidgeting as he had in the bed next to her. He must've fallen asleep at some point though, because she woke him in the morning by vomiting loudly in the tiny en-suite. Neither had been able to stomach breakfast, although for differing reasons, and so she had taken his hand in hers and given him the encouragement he needed to leave the dingy hotel and take the ten minute walk to the hospital atop the hill.

But here he was, pacing the small windowless room as he built up the courage he needed to make his decision. She had told him, right from the start, that he didn't have to make his choice until this moment. Now the moment had arrived, he found he was struggling to make that simple choice like she asked of him. Either way, he knew she'd defend his actions when the questions and accusations were thrown at him.

"I don't know where to begin," he muttered.

"Wherever you want. I'm not going anywhere; take as long as you need," her voice was soft and not at all the voice she used at work.

He ran his hand over his face and cursed his stupidity at leaving his razor at home. Suddenly the room seemed too hot – stuffy – and airless. Her yanked on the scarlet tie he wore and then tugged at the collar of his shirt. She stood and crossed the small distance, her small fingers unbuttoning his shirt so his throat lay exposed to the world, and smiled at him reassuringly.

He caught her hands in his as she dropped them and in answer to her curiosity, pulled her into his arms and clung to her tightly. "When you told me," he whispered, "I promised not to think any differently of you afterwards – which I didn't … I don't. All that I ask is that you do the same for me … please."

She nodded, "I promise," and took his hands to once again place them over their shared secret, over their miracle. It filled him with wonder every time.

"Well … I, um – me dad, he … he, well y'know what he did," She nodded once and he suddenly didn't want to hold her afraid that, if he did, he'd taint her and their secret with his story, with his truth. He watched as she perched on the edge of a dilapidated chair and resumed his pacing. "My mother … she – there were five of us; me and my three sisters and me brother. I was the wee youngest. I was ten when … when – when it happened."

He clenched and unclenched his fists, almost forgetting she was there. "The village we lived in – it … it was small, y'know. Close knit and all that. We knew each other, looked out for each other." He sighed and sank into a chair across the room from her. "The wee lass – I can't say her name – no one expected her to go missin' y'know. Me and me sisters were at me granny's with me mum – here. We weren't even there when it happened."

He took a deep calming breath. "But when it came out that the police thought it were me dad that took her … ya don't know what that's like. An' … and it were me dad. He killed that wee lass … he – he … there was too much evidence against him and …" he sprung to his feet, tears in his eyes. "Me own dad – a killer? But not just a killer. No, he were a fucking child killer … twisted and sick and … we had to deal with that. I mean – he had us … me and me sisters … the wee lass – the girl – she was only five. She'd done nothin' and I don't understand …"

Anger boiled up inside him. Irrational but not exactly uncharacteristic; he slammed his fist into the wall and made her jump and instinctively tense up, expecting him to turn on her. Dropping to his knees in front of her he begged forgiveness – and she gave it freely, kissing his hair as he wept into her lap. "But she – me mum – she … she defended him. _She defended him!_" therein lay the heart of his dilemma.

How long he wept for, she didn't know – there was no clock, now way of measuring time, in the room – although she suspected it was a while. Eventually he lifted his head and she felt her heart break as she saw the extent of his pain. Taking his face between her hands, she kissed him softly – it was no act of love, more an act of 'you are not alone' – getting a smile out of him. Staggering to his feet slightly, he dried his eyes on the back of his hand and resumed his agitated walk around the room. She half expected him to have worn the threadbare carpet out completely by the time he was done.

Dressed typically in his jeans, shoes in need of a polish, casual shirt and informal tie she watched as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and kept running his hands over his face and through his tightly curled brown hair. She half wondered if he purposely chose his shirt to ensure his strength of body was not hidden under his clothing. His Scottish brogue was all the thicker – whether it was because he was angry or back where he'd grown up, she didn't know. Searching for something to say, she cast an eye around the dull room that just heightened the complexity of the situation.

"Did she know … when she was defending him – did … did she know what he'd done?"

He froze with his back to her, shoulders tensed and his fists were clenched. She took that as a 'no' and continued in the same calming tone.

"Look at it this way; if it was someone you loved and trusted who'd been accused of such things … and you honestly believed that they were innocent … what would you do? If you'd never been given reason to doubt them in the past or … suspect that they were hiding something. Could you stand and not fight for their innocence?"

"But he wasn't innocent!"

"She found that out the same time as the rest of the world did." He had resumed his pacing, marching to and fro as he struggled and she sighed. How long had they been here? Who knows … no one had come in to check on them – to see if they were going to visit his mother or not – and she half wondered if they'd been forgotten.

After several long moments, he suddenly rounded on her. "You sit there as if nothing has changed! How can you still want me involved after … after knowing _this_? Me own father murdered a child! A wee kid and … and you still want me to be the father of yours? Why? Why!"

"You asked me not to think of you any differently … and I don't. _You are not your father._ However much you may think that … you're not – okay? I _know_ you. And I don't want to do this with anyone else." She refused to drop her gaze from him. "I can't do this with anyone else because no one else thinks that I can do it. I need you by my side."

She watched as he returned to his pacing having realised that she viewed him no differently now that he'd told the truth. A past so different from her own, and yet the outcomes, the coping methods they used were the same. Block it out; pretend it never happened – ignore it and deny it in the hopes it would just … disappear. She wrapped her arms round her stomach, round their shared secret, and vowed never to give their miracle reason to want to forget its past.

"She wants to see you."

He was shaking his head, "I … I – I … I don't know … I don't know what to do."

Interrupting his path, she folded her arms and held his gaze while he shoved his hands into his pockets, "what do you want?" His shoulders lifted and then fell back down as his face took on an expression of helplessness. "I can't make this choice for you – it's _your_ choice."

"If I said … I were to say yeah. What then? Would I go alone?"

"Not if you didn't want to."

"You'd come with me?" he sounded almost childish when he said it and she felt a sudden urge to wrap her arms round his neck and hold him tight and never, ever, let go.

"If that was what you wanted."

"And … if – if I … I said no?"

"Then we would go home and nothing more would be said."

He nodded and bit his lip as the door finally opened. The time had come; he had to make his choice now because otherwise it might be too late. They didn't realise that they'd been tucked away in the room for so long while he agonised over what to do. His mother was critical – unlikely to make it through the night – and they wanted to sedate her. However she was adamant on seeing her son first.

He glanced at her and she nodded, "you can," she murmured watching him as he faced his dilemma and wrestled with his choices. "Listen to your heart – not your head – in this."

It seemed that was all he needed. The agony of the decision faded from his features as his entire bearing straightened and became much more upright as he made his choice. Reaching for her hand, he slipped his fingers through hers and squeezed them slightly as she picked up her bag and missing his answer to the kind woman who'd asked it of him. The door closed, leaving her confused as to why they were still in the room.

"I need a minute …" he murmured, brushing her hair out of her face before impulsively pulling her into his arms and hugging her tightly. "Okay," he stated after several moments, "let's get this over with."

Following the instructions he led the way down a series of corridors – windowless and washed with the same off-white – until they arrived outside a room hidden at the back of the ward. They'd both agreed they preferred their work place as opposed to this one. So he'd decided to see her then … good, it was the choice she'd wanted him to make. She gave him one last smile of encouragement before he pushed the door open and entered the room.

To save time, and keep it simple, he introduced her as his friend – keeping their miracle secret – when his mother asked who she was. He firmly denied any romantic entanglements with her because he didn't want her butting in on his life. Truth was he'd missed his mother, although the biased views of his sisters, brother and his granny had tainted his opinion of her ever since the … _incident_ … and he'd not known what to think. She begged him to forgive her – blamed herself for not seeing his father for what he really was – and he brushed it aside as if it wasn't needed.

His mother chided him for not keeping in touch with his sisters and brother, although seemed happy that he did attend the family events his granny threw – albeit reluctantly. Her gaze and attention returned to the woman who'd accompanied him once again and she seemed determined to get to the bottom of their relationship. He fended her off with excuses and she seemed to at last get the hint and let the subject drop. While he'd forgiven her, he still found it hard to be in her company for long, and so promising to return when she woke up – and hating himself for encouraging the lie – he left the room and didn't look back.

The fresh Scottish air was a relief to be in once they'd excited the hospital, although it wasn't enough to warrant the need for a jacket. "I'm proud of you," she told him as they made their way back to the hotel. "I mean it." Stopping off to purchase nutrition, they leant against the bridge and watched the ducks swarm for the bread children threw to them in the river below. He turned to find her studying him; her fiery hair was waving gently in the breeze.

Throwing the rest of his food to the ducks, he sighed. "Thank you … for coming. I – I wouldn't have come if … well," he trailed off.

"I know."

He took her hand in his and together they watched the river and the activity happening on it. There were children throwing bread to the duck, wading in the shallows while parents told them off for getting their shoes wet. Boats, small and large, drifted lazily along in the centre while old men sat with their fishing poles, lines getting tangled in the weeds. Everything seemed to have a sense of history here – the cobbles on the pavement and the stones that had built the bridge – and the city seemed to be in perfect balance with the landscape that surrounded it.

"What y'thinking?"

She shrugged and handed him her unfinished sandwich, "It seems nice here … peaceful, yet not unpleasantly so. Enough happens and it feels … safe."

"Nowhere is ever safe," he responded sadly, "not really … not anymore."

"I suppose that's true …" she absently played with his hand for a moment before she told him what was on her mind. "I don't want our child to grow up trying to forget its past. I don't want that …"

He nodded, "me neither; it doesn't seem fair if we let that happen." Taking her by the waist, he trapped her between him and the wall of the old bridge. "Our secret … our miracle … deserves the life we never had."

"Our baby," she corrected gently.

"Our wee baby," he agreed wondering why the sudden change.

"You grew up here, didn't you?"

He nodded, "me and me sisters and me brother came to live with me granny. I guess our family didn't want us staying with me mum," he turned her round so that she was facing the river again and place one hand over their secret while he used the other to point out the cottage his granny lived in. "This wee river goes all the way to the sea, about a mile thataway … and me granny lives in right there," he waited until her eyes had sought the spot before telling her tales of his life in Lochgilphead and of the time he'd broken his leg falling out of the oak tree in the park they'd passed on their way to the hospital that morning.

"Could you come back here?"

"Not to live here … not in Scotland I don't think. I love the place … but – it's not Holby."

She let he head fall back against his chest and he held her tightly. She still loved him – today had proved that more than anything – and the strange thing was that he had discovered that he was still in love with her. Should he say something? Did he need to? Could she already tell that he did? She turned her head slightly and he gazed into her eyes for a moment before acting entirely upon his heart's choice – which was what she'd told him to do earlier – and kissed her.

There was no resistance from her; his lips remembered hers within a heartbeat. Yes. He could do this; he had her and he had their miracle – their baby. They'd be fine wouldn't they? The agony of their own pasts would ensure that they would protect their child from any kinds of pain like that. He grinned at the thought of what his family would say when they found out that he, the wee rascal Jonny, had fathered a child. Through the kiss, he felt Jac smiling too – but for differing reasons – and they broke apart several long moments in time to watch the sun stain the river red.


End file.
